


the boiling sea

by TomBowline



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Fantasizing, Humiliation, M/M, Masturbation, Shame Edward Little Power Hour, Watersports
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-26
Updated: 2021-01-26
Packaged: 2021-03-18 04:21:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28860990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TomBowline/pseuds/TomBowline
Summary: On one day in the endless stretch of petty-paced tomorrows that was Terror Camp, Edward found himself at the trench latrine with Sergeant Tozer almost directly across from him.
Relationships: Edward Little/Solomon Tozer
Comments: 6
Kudos: 30
Collections: The Terror Bingo





	the boiling sea

**Author's Note:**

> Fill for the “watersports” square on my Terror Bingo card!

On one day in the endless stretch of petty-paced tomorrows that was Terror Camp, Edward found himself at the trench latrine with Sergeant Tozer almost directly across from him.

He had approached from the opposite side of the narrow stinking line to stand diagonal to Edward and gotten his prick out without compunction. It was a handful even soft, the great flushed head of it peeking between the sergeant’s thick fingers like a bashful thing though its owner was anything but. 

He grunted when he started up - quiet, such that Edward might not have heard it had he been further away. As it was he could hear everything - the sergeant’s long and lingering sigh, the obscene hiss of liquid running into hard earth. His stream was hot, hot enough to excite some wisps of steam from the frigid air, and stronger than Edward would expect - snow was not so frequent at the height of summer, and they all wanted for water. As it tapered down to a drip, he fancied he could smell it; a high note of fresh salty bitterness cutting through the stale stench left by the men who had been here before them. Salty as the sea, he thought.

It was only when Tozer began to tuck himself away that Edward realized he’d been standing there stock-still, holding his pissed-out cock and staring as the sergeant emptied his own. With burning cheeks he turned away and left for - somewhere - before Tozer decided to say something about it.

By the night this scene had not left him. He had foregone thinking of it for the remainder of the day, having always something else to do, but as he lay immobile in the dark tent and tried vainly to find sleep, the image of Tozer at the trench kept rising to the top of his mind. Inexorable, clear as glass, and searing in the degree of desire it created. 

How big the sergeant’s cock had been, he thought, and how much it might still grow were Edward to apply his hand or mouth or arse. His mind was full of what his body could not have - that rewarding weight on his tongue, the splitting stretching give of being taken. The press of his nose to a soft hairy stomach, breathing in the damp scent of exertion. How would Tozer smell, at the root of him, under his slops and his proud crimson uniform? Edward was sharing a tent now with petite pious Irving and gangly nattering Hodgson - hardly men of Tozer’s caliber. But they all smelled about the same by this point, at once sour with sweat and dirt and rich with that essential odor of the body, and as Edward breathed the close air of the tent he let himself imagine it was Tozer’s scent he was drinking in. 

With the thought of drinking he was back to what he had seen at the latrine, beset by wild and heedless visions. It must be the lead, he thought, addling his brain - he would not have such fancies otherwise; had never had such before. But he was desperate now in more ways than one, and the night would be long and distressing if he could not turn his mind in an agreeable direction. So he let the fantasy take him where it would, borne up on a wave of obscene longing. 

He wished with an ardent shock of desire that he had knelt before the sergeant, let Tozer use him as he would use the trench. A hot thing in a cold place, washing over him to warm him through. Something fresh, something to slake his thirst - he was so thirsty, now. 

In his mind’s eye it was endless - he, sprawled before Tozer on the shale, gasping for it, stripped down to shirt and trousers; Tozer, leering down at him, giving out that groan of relief as he bathed Edward in the filthy soaking heat of his piss. He would have one boot, perhaps, on Edward’s prick through his trousers, or perhaps he would touch him not at all. 

Edward squirmed in his sack, shifted so his back was to the others. Pressed the heel of one hand into his cock - just like that, it would be, a tough leather tread pressing down onto his softest hardest parts with no consideration for his comfort. All the while pissing strong and steady, painting Edward’s face with heat like being pressed by a rough-gripped hand to the very casing of the engine that sat cold now back on Terror. Groaning to hear the hiss as Edward’s shirt drank it in, the hollow splash as Edward’s mouth followed suit. 

He felt a bead of fluid weep out from his own cock as he submerged himself in the fantasy; fumbled momentarily and shoved a handkerchief through the fly of his long underwear, then continued to rub and stroke himself over all. Tozer would not do more, he thought - he would not care to. He might, when he was done, tell Edward to get himself out. Edward would do it at once, so desperate would he be - hot wet hand and hot wet trousers, pulling wantonly at his hot wet prick. Tozer’s lovely big hands might not be on him, but the smell of him would cling thick about Edward’s body, the saline tang of his leavings. His eyes would be there too, watching him with a low-lidded open-mouthed interest as he tugged his own cock idly from above. His eyes, yes, and— And the eyes of anyone else who walked by the edge of camp. Anyone would be able to see him soaked in the sergeant’s piss, lying at the sergeant’s feet, drooling for the sergeant’s cock - Edward’s face heated, shame pricking down his neck, and his own cock spat out another hot dribble of seed. 

He reached his hand in after all, rubbing mercenarily at the end of his cock and squeezing his legs together to work his balls in the damp creasing cave of his hairy thighs. He was seeking relief now, seeking the blizzard-white cleansing of his mind that came along with orgasm. He thought once again of Tozer towering over him, prick fatter now than ever and balls drawn up tight. He would move to stand by Edward’s face and aim down; he would streak Edward with his spend, mark him once again, loose a groan that was half a snarl. It would burn across Edward’s face like the crack of the cat, like a stripe of summer sunshine, and Edward would - Edward was coming, soaking the handkerchief - over his fist, make a mess of himself for everyone to see - shuddering to a skidding spinning halt in his suddenly overwarm sleeping sack.

Edward laid blissfully insensible for several moments in the aftermath. When he finally took up the handkerchief to clean himself as best he could, he felt the sickly humidity of sweat soaking the backs of his knees, flooding his fundament. He listened, willing his breath to calm, and— yes, there was Irving’s even breathing and Hodgson’s nasally little snore. He had disturbed nobody but himself. 

The wrenching of his orgasm was not the balm he had expected - truth told, it never really was - and sleep eluded him for a small sweaty eternity. When he drifted into fitful sleep at last, it was to the thought of Tozer’s arm around him, the hot line of his body pressed muscle and bulk into Edward’s back. His big hand rubbing soothing strokes across Edward’s shoulder. His face tucked into Edward’s neck. The notion seemed, somehow, to be infinitely more shameful than what had preceded it.


End file.
